The second parting of Romeo and Juliet at the balcony looking into
Capulet’s orchard was very different from the first. Then, indeed,
Romeo had reluctantly torn himself away; but, after all, they had
another happier meeting to look forward to on the morrow. Now, all
was gloom and uncertainty, and who knew when they would ever see each
other again? The lark, the herald of the morning, that sang joyously
high overhead,--the golden rays of dawn that pierced the eastern
clouds,--only brought sadness to the hearts of the young husband and
wife, for they told that the fatal hour of parting had come. Longing
to keep Romeo with her, yet dreading the peril he ran if he delayed
too long, Juliet one moment implored him to stay, and the next urged
him to depart.
“Oh, now be gone; more light and light it grows,” she sighed at last;
and Romeo echoed despairingly:
“More light and light; more dark and dark our woes!”
At this moment the nurse came hastily to warn Juliet that her mother
was approaching, and now indeed Romeo must take his last farewell.
As Juliet looked down to him from the balcony it seemed to her that
Romeo’s face, in the gray light of dawn, looked pale as one in the
bottom of a tomb, and even his cheering words that spoke of a future
meeting failed to bring comfort to her breaking heart.
But she had no time to brood over this sorrow, for she was now called
to face another and almost more terrible trial.
Lady Capulet had come to her daughter’s room at this unusual hour
to bring news of great importance. The County Paris had renewed his
suit to Juliet’s father. All was arranged; the marriage was fixed to
take place in three days’ time, on the following Thursday. It did not
occur to the parents that Juliet would have any voice in the matter;
or, rather, Lady Capulet thought it would be joyful tidings to her,
and would help to console her for the death of her cousin Tybalt. She
was, therefore, somewhat astonished to find the way in which her news
was received. In answer to her intelligence that early next Thursday
the gallant, young, and noble gentleman, the County Paris, at Saint
Peter’s Church, would happily make Juliet a joyful bride, her daughter
exclaimed with fire:
“Now, by Saint Peter’s Church and Peter too, he shall not make me
there a joyful bride!”
Juliet went on to say that she would not marry in this haste, and when
she did marry it would be Romeo, their enemy, rather than Paris.
Then in came Capulet, her father, and, deaf to all Juliet’s pleadings,
he swore in a furious rage that she _should_ marry Paris; and if she
did not, she might beg, starve, die in the streets, for he would not
own her as a daughter.
Juliet appealed to her mother, but Lady Capulet was really angry with
her, or perhaps she did not dare to go against her husband; at any
rate, she took his side in the matter, and harshly refused to listen
to anything Juliet might say.
“Do as thou wilt, for I have done with thee,” were her final cruel
words, as she followed her husband from the room.
Cut to the heart, stunned with misery, Juliet turned to her last hope.
Her old nurse was still beside her; she, at least, knew that what her
parents demanded was impossible; she knew that Juliet could not marry
Paris, for she was already married to Romeo. Perhaps she could suggest
some way of escape.
“Comfort me, counsel me,” implored the distracted young girl. “What
say’st thou? Hast thou not a word of joy? Some comfort, nurse.”
And this is the comfort and counsel the old nurse gave. Romeo was
banished, she said; she would wager anything he would never dare to
come back to challenge her, or, if he did, it would have to be by
stealth. Then, since the case stood as it did, she thought the best
thing would be for Juliet to marry the County Paris. Oh, he was a
lovely gentleman! Romeo was nothing to him! Indeed, she thought Juliet
very happy in her second match, for it far excelled her first; or, if
it did not, her first was dead, or he might just as well be dead as
living, when banished from Juliet.
So spoke the selfish, base-minded old woman. Juliet looked at her
fixedly.
“Do you speak this from your heart?” she asked solemnly.
“And from my soul too,” returned the old woman, “or evil befall them.”
“Amen!” said Juliet.
“What?”
“Well, you have comforted me marvellous much,” said Juliet, speaking
with strange calm. “Go in, and tell my lady that, having displeased my
father, I have gone to Friar Laurence’s cell to make confession and to
be absolved.”
“Marry I will, and this is wisely done,” said the old nurse, pottering
away to fulfil her errand.
Then, for a moment, Juliet’s self-restraint gave way.
“Oh, most wicked fiend!” she cried, in just indignation. “Is it more
sin to wish me to be thus forsworn, or to dispraise my lord with that
same tongue with which she has praised him as above compare so many
thousand times! Go, counsellor; thou and my bosom henceforth shall be
twain. I will go to the Friar to ask his remedy. If everything else
fail, I have power myself to die.”
The good Friar did not fail the young girl in her need, as the
old nurse had done. But the way of escape he suggested was such
a terrible one that none but the bravest and most faithful heart
could ever have consented to it. Juliet’s position, however, was so
desperate, and she was so determined to be true to Romeo, that she
would have died rather than have married Paris; and now she declared
she was ready to go down to the gates of death itself if only she
might live a true wife to Romeo.
Seeing her resolution, Friar Laurence went on to describe his plan.
The marriage was to take place two days hence, on the Thursday. On the
Wednesday night Juliet, when she went to bed, was to drink off the
contents of a phial, which the Friar would give her. This was a very
strong sleeping draught, which would make her lie exactly like dead,
pale as ashes, stiff and cold, for forty-two hours, after which she
would awaken as if from a pleasant sleep. On the Thursday morning,
when they came to rouse her for the marriage, they would find her
apparently dead, and then--according to the custom of the country--in
her best robes, uncovered on the bier, she would be borne to the
ancient vault of the Capulets.
In the meantime, before she awoke, news would be sent to Romeo to
tell him everything. He would come back to Verona, and he and Friar
Laurence would watch beside Juliet in the vault until she awoke, and
that very same night Romeo should convey her away to Mantua.
This was the desperate plan which the Friar suggested, and which
Juliet’s love for her husband gave her strength to accept and carry
out. With unflinching courage she seized the little phial, while Friar
Laurence went immediately to despatch a speedy messenger to Mantua
with letters to Romeo.
All through the night before the marriage there was bustle and stir in
the household of the Capulets. Great preparations were being made for
the festivities, and Capulet himself was up all night, urging forward
the servants, and hurrying them here and there about their different
tasks. As the moments sped by, he became more and more excited, and
when the musicians arrived to serenade the bride on her wedding
morning, he shouted to the nurse to go and waken Juliet at once, and
get her dressed.
“Hie, make haste!” he said. “I’ll go and chat with Paris. Make haste,
make haste! The bridegroom, he is come already! Make haste, I say!”
So the nurse went to Juliet’s chamber....
How calm and restful was everything here! What a contrast to the rush
and noisy confusion outside the closed door! Not a sound broke the
stillness, not a rustle of movement showed that any living creature
was an inmate of the room. Behind those drawn curtains the bride slept
well.
But she must rouse herself now; the time for slumber is past. She must
shake off the heaviness from her dreaming eyes; she must leave this
peaceful haven of her childhood; her happy girlish days are over and
done with. The wedding feast is set, the guests are assembling, the
bridegroom is waiting. Wake, Juliet, awaken!...
Shout, nurse, wail for sorrow, and wring your hands. Call louder, the
bride does not hear you. Weep, mother, for the child whom you turned
from when living; mourn, father, for the daughter you rejected and
disowned.
There in her bridal robes lies the bride upon her bed, pale as ashes,
stiff and cold. The snowy whiteness of her wedding raiment is not
more white than her face; her closed eyes smile back no greeting to
the rising sun. The little phial has done its work. Here at the door
stands the bridegroom, but to the mourners in that desolate chamber it
seems that a mightier than he has stepped before him and claimed the
bride, and the name of that bridegroom is Death.